


red lips and revenge

by TrialsAndErrors



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (like with a real marker), Face-Fucking, M/M, Marking, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Post-Season 2, billy is passed out drunk and steve takes advantage, billy probably wouldn't have consented if he'd been awake, steve is drunk and not making great decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:27:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23247001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrialsAndErrors/pseuds/TrialsAndErrors
Summary: Steve is drunk at a party, and finds Billy Hargrove passed out drunk on a pool table.He takes advantage.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	red lips and revenge

**Author's Note:**

> No beta; we die like men.
> 
> Heed the tags.

The party was winding down. It was late, and most people had already left. Some had passed out, or was on the way there, and only a handful were still standing around, talking amongst themselves over the – still loud – music.

Steve was more than pleasantly drunk; he’d spent the entire night with a beer in hand, and was now the kind of drunk where he was just stumbling along, looking for someplace he could crash – preferably somewhere soft, but a quiet corner would do. (Quiet optional.)

He’d seen enough couples sneaking their way upstairs to know, even with his mind being as muddled as it was, that there would be no quiet corners to be found on the second floor. Instead, he found himself bouncing his shoulder off the doorway leading to the basement before lumbering downstairs. He’d been down there earlier in the night, but there’d been too many people smoking and too few beers, so he’d wandered back up. Now, he figured it might be empty, and hadn’t there been a couch down there? He was pretty sure there’d been a couch.

On the upside; there _was_ a couch.

On the downside; the place wasn’t as empty as he’d hoped.

Billy Hargrove was sprawled out on his back on the pool table in the middle of the room, out cold and surrounded by cue balls and empty or half-empty beer cans. His shirt was open, because when was it not, and his legs were at an awkward angle, as if he had been about to get up when he passed out. His arms were stretched out on either side as if he was Jesus and the pool table was the cross, and his head was hanging off the edge of the table (and Steve kinda hoped he’d wake up with a crick in his neck). His mouth was open, but again, when was it not?

He looked _stupid_ , lying like that.

Stupid Hargrove. Always running his mouth, getting up in people’s business, hitting people over the head with plates.

Steve absent-mindedly rubbed a hand over his forehead, where there was a tiny scar from his last real fight with Hargrove, months ago now.

Steve didn’t really want to spend more time in the same room as the other boy than he had to, but the music wasn’t as loud down here and there was no one else around. It was as close to a quiet corner he’d find. Besides, it wasn’t like Hargrove was awake to antagonize him.

Wasn’t like Hargrove was awake to do _anything_ , really.

Without quite knowing why, Steve closed the door behind him. Leaned his back against it, and took in the scene in front of him.

The pool table was placed in the dead center of the room, with a lamp right above it which illuminated Hargrove as if he was on a stage. The dark corners of the room would ordinarily make Steve uneasy, but now all it did was make sure that Steve could not pay attention to anything but the unmoving form of his high school enemy, lying half-shirtless on a pool table. _On display_ , to be admired and _seen_.

Steve scoffed. Stupid Hargrove. Even unconscious, he just _had_ to be the center of attention.

There was some kind of writing on his stomach, and Steve took a step closer to get a better look. A red marker was lying forgotten on the table next to a stray cue ball, cap off, and someone – possibly Hargrove himself – had scribbled something illegible on his stomach, with an uneven arrow pointing down towards his crotch.

His pants were _really_ low on his hips – not that Steve noticed or cared.

Passed out at a party with a marker _right there_ … It was a shame, really, that no one had drawn a dick on the guy yet. Then again, everyone was probably too afraid to. Afraid he’d come after them for it, and beat them up. Well, Steve wasn’t afraid! He’d already been beat up by Hargrove once and lived to tell the tale.

Because what was a high school bully in the great scheme of things? Steve had fought literal monsters. Hargrove didn’t scare him anymore.

Besides, he had it coming. Reaching out, and being careful not to wake him up, Steve grabbed the marker and leaned his head to the side, considering. There was a small bruise on Hargrove’s ribs, almost at his back, barely visible under the bunched-up fabric of his shirt that he was lying on, and Steve licked his lips before poking the tip of the marker into the bruise, hard. It left a bright red dot on his skin, and Steve held his breath, prepared to make a run for it if needed, but Hargrove didn’t stir.

Steve poked him again, just to be sure. No reaction.

The two dots he’d just made looked like eyes, so he drew a sad mouth under it and angry eyebrows, and then wrote “Billy” underneath with an arrow pointing up at it. Just because he could.

Then, feeling vindictive, he drew a big dick in the middle of Hargrove’s chest. Complete with big balls and curly pubes, it was pointing proudly up at his face.

Slowly, savoring the moment, Steve traced the marker from the tip of the dick and up Hargrove’s chest to his clavicle, and then back again. He did the same twice more, and just to make sure everyone would know what it was (because he’d almost failed art class), he wrote “cum” above one nipple and drew another arrow.

Stepping back (and almost stumbling because, yeah, he was still kinda drunk), he admired his handiwork. Now Steve had drawn a lot of dicks in his day, but this, this was his masterpiece. He imagined Hargrove waking up tomorrow and seeing it, and felt something warm spread through his belly at the though.

Then his eyes got stuck on the line of Hargrove’s throat, because sprawled out like he was, he looked oddly … vulnerable. Exposed.

Maybe even _powerless_ , for once.

Steve was surprised to notice, suddenly, that his hand had found its way to Hargrove’s throat. His fingers closed around it – not hard enough to cut off air, but not a light touch, either – and feeling Hargrove’s pulse under his fingers, his own heartbeat sped up.

Hargrove still didn’t move. If it wasn’t for the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the pulse Steve could feel burning under his palm, he would have thought he was dead.

He wasn’t dead, though. Just drunk and passed out. _Defenseless_.

Steve bit his lip and pulled his hand back, and watched with fascination as the brief imprint of where his fingers had been turned back to its original color. An impression on Billy Hargrove, made by him, even if it only lasted for a moment.

Steve suddenly wanted it to last longer than that. He walked a couple of steps along the table so he got a better angle, and put his hand back on Hargrove’s throat. With his other hand, he clumsily traced the outlines of his hand, getting red marker lines on his fingers but not giving a damn. When he was done, there was a crudely drawn hand on Hargrove’s skin, in permanent marker – proving to anyone who saw him that someone had had him at their mercy. That Hargrove wasn’t such a big shot, after all. Wasn’t such an alpha male. That maybe, just maybe, he was just an asshole with a big mouth.

Unbidden, Steve glanced down at Hargrove’s face. It would serve the guy right to wake up with a dick drawn on his cheek, too, and Steve might as well go all the way with his petty revenge – but when the tip of the marker found Hargrove’s skin again, it wasn’t his cheek.

Steve was snickering to himself as he ran the marker over Hargrove’s lips. It almost looked like lipstick, even if Steve couldn’t make an even line in his current state of intoxication, and it ended up looking more than a little messy. Halfway through, though, Steve stopped giggling. When he began drawing on Hargrove’s lower lip, he found he had to swallow, as his throat had suddenly gone dry.

It really _did_ look like lipstick.

Now, _technically_ , there wasn’t anything special about Hargrove’s lips, except maybe for how often he kept running his tongue over them. Seeing all the red, though, accentuating them like this? Steve couldn’t help but lick his own lips, and his eyes flickered from the reddened lips, to the drawn handprint, and back again.

And something about it was getting to him – something he had no desire to examine more closely – because he could feel himself getting _hard_.

This wasn’t –

No. Just _no_. He was not getting hard over _Hargrove_ , of all people. Not happening.

He dropped the marker to the floor as if it burned him and turned to leave, and made it all the way to the door – had his hand on the handle and everything – before he stopped. If someone had asked him at that moment why he didn’t just leave, he couldn’t have answered. But instead of opening the door and walking back up the stairs, his hand lowered a bit as if on its own volition, and he turned the lock. The sound of it clicking into place – meaning no one would get in until he unlocked it – made him shudder, and he reached down and palmed himself through his jeans to try to stave off the sudden discomfort.

This was so, so wrong.

He turned around, half expecting Hargrove to be advancing on him with murder in his eyes, but the other boy still hadn’t moved. Was still lying there, with his _oh so red_ lips, mouth open like he was _daring_ Steve to just –

No.

He shook his head to clear it, face flushing even as he slowly walked back to the pool table. He gingerly wrapped his fingers under Hargrove’s jaw and let his thumb trace over Hargrove’s bottom lip, pulling it back to reveal perfect, white teeth.

Rubbing his thumb over the soft flesh of Hargrove’s lips didn’t smudge the red at all – perhaps it wasn’t much like lipstick, after all.

Steve had gotten his fair share of blowjobs in his King Steve days. He knew that lipstick had a tendency to smear; leave messy stains on skin and fabric alike. But he’d bet that the red lips he’d just given Hargrove would look the same, even after.

It was an enticing thought, and he could feel a familiar heat pool in his abdomen. He leaned forward, pressing his crotch against the edge of the pool table, mere inches from Hargrove’s head, and biting his lip at the sensation.

Hargrove was _right there_. Mouth open in invitation.

No.

He _shouldn’t_. It was _wrong_ , in so many ways.

But. Hargrove wasn’t even awake. He wouldn’t know. _No one_ would know. And sure, it was wrong, but Hargrove kinda deserved it, right? He’d been a dick since day one, and just the thought of finally being able to stick it to the guy – quite literally – made Steve breathe so heavily that he could hear it over the blood suddenly buzzing in his ears.

He unzipped his pants and got a fist around himself before he could change his mind, and it was such a thrill. Looking down and seeing himself jerk off right next to Billy Hargrove’s face – Hargrove, with Steve’s handprint on his throat and lips painted messy red – made Steve’s cock twitch in his hand. He took a step closer, letting it drag an uneven line across Hargrove’s face.

The guy still didn’t react, even at this, and all of a sudden Steve knew he was going to go through with this. He was too turned on not to. There was no backing out now.

Emboldened by this sudden epiphany, Steve grabbed a hold of Hargrove’s jaw and slid his thumb into his mouth, pulling a little to make him open up a bit more. Then, he let the tip of his cock touch those red lips and paused only to exhale sharply at the feeling of Hargrove’s breath on sensitive skin. Committing the sight of it to memory – because he wanted to sear this image into his brain, and be able to pull it up the next time Hargrove was being a dick to him in school – he gave himself a couple of lazy strokes before he pushed in harshly, thumb still in place at the side of Hargrove’s mouth.

He didn’t get very far – the guy’s tongue was in the way somehow – but it still made him feel hazy and had his heart pounding in his veins. Grabbing a hold of the edge of the pool table to keep his balance, he adjusted his angle and thrust in again, deeper this time.

It was hot and wet and soft, and he got so lost in the sensations that he almost didn’t notice the sound of Hargrove choking. He could _feel_ it though, and that’s what snapped him out of it. Pulling out with his heart in his throat, he took a step back. Waiting to see if Hargrove had woken up.

But no. The guy gave a little cough and an aborted swallow, but didn’t open his eyes. Still out cold, then, which allowed Steve to go back to what he’d been doing without having to worry. He was almost painfully hard now, and in desperate need of release. And he knew exactly where he wanted that to happen.

This time, before he pushed in, he grabbed Hargrove’s jaw with one hand, and a handful of his hair with the other, making it easier to hold him steady. Hargrove choked around him, and the sound in combination with the _feeling_ of it almost made Steve come, right then and there. He exhaled sharply, pulled back, and thrust right back in, as deep as he could go. Tightening his grip on Hargrove’s hair, he began to fuck Hargrove’s mouth, hard and fast, not paying any attention to anything but the feeling of a hot mouth around his cock.

After a couple of thrusts, he pulled his thumb out and instead put his palm over the drawn hand he’d put on Hargrove’s skin, and maybe it was all in his mind but he imagined he could _feel_ himself pushing into Hargrove’s throat.

He didn’t last long after that. With a gasp, he buried himself deep in the wet heat of Hargrove’s mouth and held himself there, shuddering as he came.

It was only afterwards, when he was coming down from the high of his orgasm, that he noticed that Hargrove had moved, and that one of his hands was feebly scratching at Steve’s hip, weakly trying to push him away.

Feeling a wave of cold dread wash over him, Steve all but jumped back, and got to watch Hargrove take a shuddering breath before coughing and gagging. His eyes were half-open, but unfocused, and his face was a mess. His skin was flushed, spit and cum was running down his face and into his eyelashes and even into his hair, and his lips were slick with saliva.

But at least Steve had been right. The red marker on Hargrove’s lips wasn’t smudged, even after this.

As Steve watched, irrationally afraid now when he regained some of his senses, Hargrove made a sound that may have been a mumble. He threw his hand over his chest, tipped his legs over and kind of … tilted over to his side – curling up as he did, so his head was no longer hanging over the edge of the table.

In an instant, he looked _smaller_.

Steve frowned even as he fumbled to tuck himself back in his pants, taking a few unsteady steps to get around the table and get a look at Hargrove’s face. He told himself he just wanted to make sure the guy was still breathing and not choking on his own vomit or whatever.

Hargrove was still breathing, rasping breaths – mouth open, red lips. His face was a mess of spit and cum – some of it still dripping out of his mouth and onto the pool table – and Steve winced. It was obvious to anyone who saw him what had happened, and while Steve wouldn’t mind Hargrove’s reputation being shot to hell, he didn’t want to be associated with this – and he couldn’t be sure that no one had seen him enter the basement and would be able to connect the dots if they saw Hargrove like this.

Looking around, he spotted the couch in the corner. Someone had thrown a sweater over the back of it, and Steve figured whoever had left it there couldn’t have been too attached to it, or they wouldn’t have left it. He used that to wipe off Hargrove’s face, just barely. There was still some cum in his hair and lashes when he was done, but at least it wasn’t too obvious to the casual observer what had happened. It would have to do.

He wondered, idly, if Billy would _know_ when he woke up. If he’d feel the ghost of Steve’s cock in his throat, if he’d feel the stickiness in his hair and recognize it for what it was. If he’d be able to taste Steve’s cum on his tongue.

Strangely, the thought didn’t ignite any kind of malicious joy in Steve, like it would have done only minutes ago, but instead it made something cold and unpleasant coil in his stomach.

Feeling decidedly less drunk and not liking it, Steve threw the sweater back onto the couch and turned to leave. He unlocked the door and threw it open, suddenly in a hurry to remove himself from the situation. But before he left, he threw one last look over his shoulder.

Billy was still on display, but curled up now; somehow radiating a completely different kind of powerlessness than ten minutes ago. Steve was suddenly very grateful that he couldn’t see the guy’s face from here.

He felt a little sick and wanted to blame it on the alcohol, but even drunk (and not even as drunk as he had been when he went down here) he realized that the amount of beer he’d had tonight had little to do with the guilt that was churning in his stomach. Cold sweat broke out on his skin, and he didn’t understand why he was suddenly feeling like he was going to throw up. It was just Hargrove, after all – the guy was an asshole, and he deserved this.

Right?

**Author's Note:**

> And then, please consider Billy waking up. Something being wrong. Maybe he knows what's happened, maybe he doesn't get it yet, maybe he doesn't understand it until later.  
> But imagine him stumbling out from that basement, making it home somehow, and ending up facing Neil at the early hours of the morning, looking like that. Imagine Neil's reaction to his son showing up on his doorstep, dishelved and hung-over (maybe still drunk), with his hair in disarray and those kind of markings on his skin. A dick on his chest, a handprint on his throat, redredred lips.  
> Imagine what Neil would do.  
> And then imagine Billy, much later, trying to come to terms with what must have happened. Looking himself over in the bathroom mirror and trying desperately to scrub the red off (the red, eventually, disappears - the newly-acquired purples and blues though are not possible to wash off).


End file.
